


Nights Like This

by Elke Tanzer (elke_tanzer)



Category: Spider-Man (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Introspection, one of my best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-01
Updated: 2005-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elke_tanzer/pseuds/Elke%20Tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Parker works alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nights Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the Spider-man movieverse, but I suspect most of the comic-canon wouldn't preclude this.

On nights like this, he doesn't know if he can keep doing what he does. He doesn't know if he wants to, and even if he wants to, if he's able. Sighing, he makes another pass through midtown.

He's so tired. He's tired of telling lies. Tired of not telling the truth. Tired of the words that come all too easily. Tired of not being able to force other words past his tongue, tired of his throat tightening and his heart seizing up in his chest and his soul becoming more and more parched.

"I'm responsible."

"There was... a disturbance."

"I'm fine, really."

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing's wrong."

"I love you."

"He's dead because of me."

A quick flick of his wrist, and another block of buildings zooms past.

He's tired of the late nights, chasing siren after siren after siren, making one capture, one save, right after another, for hours. He's tired of not being able to sleep, knowing he should be out here, watching over the city, because no one else can. This gift, this curse... this _responsibility_ never sleeps, so why should he allow himself to need to?

He lands on one of his convenient lookout spires for this part of the city. The rectangular ledges aren't deep, but he doesn't need much space. He curls himself against the slick wall, leaving one hand splayed as he surveys the urban canyons for signs of trouble.

He'll pause in his patrol here tonight, head cocked to listen for sirens, eyes seeking the sudden flash of lights from a chase underway. He lets the gusty wind buffet him a bit against his narrow ledge, barely noticing the darkest hours' chill forcing its way through taut spandex to needle his skin. He's been doing this a lot lately, not going home until dawn, fitting his small frame into a high cranny of a different building every night.

He wonders idly if his subconscious mind would keep his hand anchored to the wall if he dozed off. Wonders if he would want it to.

He wonders if, falling asleep here, he would wake up falling. Wonders if, falling, he'd bother to flick out a web to swing out before the ground came up to meet him.

He can almost hear Jameson in his mind, coming up with headlines. "Spider Squashed At Last. Menace Unmasked, Spider Splat Reveals All. Wall-Walker Masqueraded As Mild-Mannered Photographer For Years, Deceived Co-Workers, Family and Friends."

He wonders what he would say to his Uncle Ben, afterward.

Normal people have nightmares about falling. He has daydreams, in the darkness of night, his only company the tiny glows of windows and streetlamps far below him, and the hollow caress of the wind.

There are no sirens at the moment, but after all, it's only a matter of time. He'll wait here, one hand splayed against the weight of the world, and they'll need him. They'll need him, and he'll be ready, waiting here, listening and watching, then leaping and swinging into action again and again. He'll be here, as his soul dries to a husk, because it's the right thing, the only thing he can do, and because every night is a night like this.


End file.
